From every corner
you are the wind
in my hair
and the voice
that brings laughter.

Our hands touch
walls of corn maizes,
our palms press against
seams of orange pumpkins,
fingers edge each drying stem.

In October
leaves scatter poetry on the street.
below our home, cinnamon notes
rise to your music and
the eyes of cats whisper

The fledgling
chill climbs through a window pane,
through a crack in the door frame.
we open curtains to a low sun.
under orange lights, we ignite.